


gold love

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Simon meets Jace when Jace accidentally aims a football at his face. His glasses break, and he stomps off to the toilets to try and tape them up before Jace can offer more than one word in apology. All in all, it’s not the most auspicious of first meetings, and itdefinitelydoesn’t result in a soul-mark.That comes later.





	gold love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for alexander-alec-lightwood. I really hope you like it!

When Simon is seven, Clary falls out of a tree and breaks her arm, snapping it against the ground with a harsh cry that reverberates through Simon’s spine. When Simon is seven, Clary breaks her arm, and he gets his first soul-mark. 

Maybe it’s the panic, the soul-deep panic and fear he feels when he looks at Clary’s tear-stained face, her brow furrowed as she tries not to cry anymore while they load her into an ambulance. Maybe that’s what sparks their connection. 

He argues with the paramedics until they let him drive in the ambulance with them, holding Clary’s good hand and babbling about the major thematic differences between Star Wars and Star Trek at her whilst something burns itself onto the backs of his calves. He cringes at the pain he feels as pictures etch themselves into his skin, but he doesn’t say anything. 

When he gets home, later, he sheds his baggy jeans and stands in front of the long mirror at the end of the hallway, craning his neck to get a good look at his reflection. There are two deep red circles on his skin, the fiery colour of Clary’s hair, each one inlaid with twisting vines and flowers in various shades of green. 

A soul-mark. His _first_ soul-mark. 

Surely that means something, he thinks. Surely that means they’re meant to be, him and Clary, even if the mark isn’t in the traditional colour to signify true love. Surely, surely, it means something. 

And it does. But it doesn’t mean what Simon thinks it means, and he won’t figure it out for a long time. 

Still, it’s his first soul-mark, and his mother bakes a cake to celebrate and sends him off to the hospital with a slice wrapped in a napkin and a look of concern on her face. Simon sees it, but decides not to worry about it, because he’s too busy babbling at Clary, who shows him the same marks on the back of her calves, in exactly the same spot, her excitement obvious in her face and tone. 

Yeah, he thinks. This means something. 

*

They start High School, and Simon knows his love is pretty obvious. He looks a little too long, laughs a little too loud, smiles a little too often, but he can’t help it. He’s in love and he can feel it, feel the vines on his legs twisting as he stares at Clary’s hair in class, watching the shine of it in the light of the window. His attention drifts to the guys playing football on the fields outside, and he props his chin up on his hands and watches Jace Lightwood pass the ball and do some kind of fancy footwork to keep himself moving. If Simon tried that, he’d end up flat on his face with a broken nose, but Jace is different. He’s strong and quick and athletic, and although he’s not a typical dude-bro like some of the other guys Simon’s seen around school, he’s still a little aggravating, still a little too good for Simon. 

Not that Simon wants anything to do with him. He has Clary and Maureen and a few other friends, and the guys from his band, although none of them are close enough that Simon has their marks on his skin. Just Clary, so far, just her marks. 

The teacher calls on him, then, and he turns away from the window and answers dutifully. 

*

When Simon is sixteen, he gets his second soul-mark. Isabelle Lightwood bumps into him on her way to her locker and lets out a sharp noise as presumably something sears itself into her skin. Simon jumps at the feeling of heat on his right shoulder, right where Isabelle brushed up against him, and he can barely get a word in before Isabelle is shoving down the shoulder of her dress and examining the soul-mark on her skin. It’s still in the process of forming, but it looks jet-black with sharp, bleeding edges, all angles and hard lines. 

It’s not unheard of for marks to form immediately, but for the most part they take time, energy, effort and love. An immediate mark means something, too, Simon thinks. 

Isabelle narrows her eyes at Simon and makes a thoughtful noise, looking him up and down. 

“Let’s see it, then.” 

Simon blanches. There are already people stopping in the corridors to gawp at Isabelle’s bared shoulder, and he doesn’t really want to do this with so many eyes on him, but she’s already reaching out and shoving aside his backpack strap and pulling down the right side of his plaid shirt, revealing the same black soul-mark on his skin. It could almost be a letter in a foreign language, and perhaps it is. Simon will have to research it. 

Isabelle hums. She grazes her fingers once against the mark and then pulls away. “You’ll do,” she says easily. “I could always use another friend.” 

She says the word _friend_ firmly, as though she wants to get the point across, that that’s all they’ll ever be. Simon thinks he’ll be okay with that. Isabelle is beautiful, certainly, but he has Clary, after all, and by the looks of things, Isabelle will be a fierce friend. 

“Uh,” Simon says, still a little thrown by the turn of events, and Isabelle rolls her eyes and wraps a hand around his wrist. 

“Come on. You can tell me all about yourself while you buy me coffee. Not the crap stuff from the cafeteria, by the way. We’re going to the café down the street, hurry up.” 

Simon glances behind him, looking for help, but everyone studiously avoids his gaze now that the drama’s over with. 

“I don’t usually skip class?” Simon offers, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. 

Isabelle drags him along behind her, and Simon gives in. 

*

He texts Rebecca furtively in the café, while Isabelle flirts with the waitress. 

_Got a new soul-mark today. You’ll like her, she made me skip class and forced me to spend over five dollars on a muffin, which is extortionate._

_She sounds terrifying. I love her already._

Simon grins. He does too. 

*

It takes a month or so for Simon to finally meet Isabelle’s brothers. The first is Alec, who looks at Simon warily and doesn’t stop looking at him like that until they finish eating lunch. Alec is a few years older than them, in college, and so he’s only stopped by for an hour or two to see Izzy, as per her request. 

Simon is fascinated. 

Aside from the strong presence, the striking beauty and the careful hesitance that make up this man, there’s also a soul-mark spanning both of his hands. Fine gold dots and hazy lines create a galaxy of stars and clouds across the back of Alec’s hands, dipping down around his thumbs to caress his palms. It’s beautiful, exquisite, and he can feel every inch of unconditional love pouring out from the picture it creates. Simon feels a surge of jealousy. He may not know much about soul-marks, but he knows what gold means. Everyone knows what gold means. It’s the most sincere, heartfelt love that exists, and Alec’s found it. 

“Sorry,” Simon says, when Alec catches him staring for the fifth time. “I’ve never seen a gold mark before.”

His mother never had a gold mark, and she never told him why. Rebecca doesn’t have any soul-marks yet, despite being older than him, and Simon doesn’t really know many other people. Soul-marks like that tend to be in significant places, and people either guard them like the treasures they are or show them off gladly, and he’s never seen any strangers doing the latter. 

“Careful,” Izzy says, rolling her eyes. “Once you get him going about Magnus, he won’t stop. It’s the one thing he’ll actually talk comfortably about for hours. Otherwise he’s as quiet as a mouse, aren’t you, Alexander?” 

The glare Alec gives her makes Simon recoil slightly, but Izzy only grins cheekily. 

Their lunch ends on a good note. Simon doesn’t think he’ll get a mark from Alec, but that’s okay. Alec seems like the type to guard his heart closely, at least from at a first glance – Simon doesn’t know if that’s true, but he also doesn’t know Alec very well yet. At least he doesn’t seem to mind he and Isabelle sharing a soul-mark. 

*

Simon meets Jace when Jace accidentally aims a football at his face. His glasses break, and he stomps off to the toilets to try and tape them up before Jace can offer more than one word in apology. All in all, it’s not the most auspicious of first meetings, and it _definitely_ doesn’t result in a soul-mark. 

That comes later.

*

Simon is almost eighteen when his heart breaks. Isabelle and Clary have been fast friends for a long time now, after Simon introduced them a few weeks after his soul-mark first bloomed on his shoulder. They like the same shows and they have similar taste in clothes and they always have something to talk about with each other. Simon’s watched them laugh together, hold each other closely and talk for hours while he fiddles about on his phone during movie nights. 

In retrospect, Simon should have seen it coming. 

It happens in an empty classroom. Clary is up on a desk, her heels swinging back and forth while Isabelle stands in front of her. Simon is sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book, but he happens to look up at exactly the right moment to catch Isabelle’s hand ghosting forward to brush Clary’s hair out of her face. Her fingers graze her temple, and something happens. 

A spark catches, and golden flowers blossom down the length of Clary’s face. 

Simon feels his heart crack open in his chest, both in wonder and disbelief, in pain. He’s never seen anything like it, and it’s beautiful, but it makes tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Isabelle turns slightly, her eyes wide in elation, and Simon sees the matching flowers blooming across her cheek and temple, grazing the tip of her chin in beautiful golden swirls. There are lilies and roses and violets and – and Simon can’t look at it anymore. 

He gathers up his books and his bag and leaves the room quietly, but not before Clary surges forward and plants kisses all over the soul-mark, dragging her lips across every flower while Isabelle laughs and laughs. 

He bumps into Jace outside of the classroom, his breath running ragged in his chest, and his books tumble out of his arms. He drops to pick them up, the sound of Isabelle’s laughter fading as the door slips shut behind him, and Jace kneels down beside him, his arms full of his own books. 

“Sorry,” Simon says, forcing as much cheer into his voice as possible. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” 

“Neither was I.” Jace looks up and double-takes, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong with you? You look upset.”

“Do I?” Simon asks thickly. “Must be the lighting.” 

He gathers up his books and starts off down the corridor, Jace’s dubious look following him past the lockers, past the bathroom, out onto the fields. There are people playing football on one field, and a group of girls swinging bats around wildly on another. Simon finds himself a patch of grass and sits, eyes still prickling, and jumps when Jace drops down onto the ground beside him, books and folders spilling out beside him. 

“What are you doing?” Simon eyes him warily. 

“You looked like someone had just died right in front of you,” Jace says bluntly, studiously avoiding his gaze. “I wasn’t about to leave you alone.” 

Simon is oddly touched. He leans back on his elbows and looks at the sun until his eyes start to ache for a reason that isn’t sadness. 

“Izzy and Clary got their soul-marks,” Simon says conversationally, casual, easy as a breeze. “They’re gold.” 

Jace stiffens, and then relaxes. He glances at Simon, and then leans back too, knocking Simon’s shoulder in a show of solidarity. 

Simon snorts. “You suck at the comfort thing.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Jace says irritably. “Sorry your not-girlfriend is in love with your other not-girlfriend?” 

“They weren’t my not-girlfriends,” Simon says, teeth gritted. “They were my friends.” 

“Who you love.” 

“Of course I love them, they’re my friends,” Simon snaps. “Izzy made it pretty clear from the beginning that that’s all we’d ever be, and I was fine with that. I never wanted more from her.” 

There’s a pause, where Jace looks at him carefully. His eyes are intense. 

“So, Clary then?” 

Simon blows out an explosive breath and nods shortly. “Clary.” 

They don’t say anything else, sitting silently until the bell rings. 

*

When Jace starts popping up more and more, Simon doesn’t necessarily protest, but he doesn’t exactly welcome it either. Izzy and Clary are all over each other whenever they find the time, so Simon keeps walking in on them in the library, by the lockers, in the cafeteria. 

He manages not to snap, or look too morose. His mood dips a little, and he finds himself poking at his food instead of eating it, lying awake at night, thinking instead of sleeping. He tells himself it was just a crush anyway, but in truth, it felt like love, the way he’s always thought love was supposed to feel. But seeing the softness in Clary’s expression, the adoration in Izzy’s eyes, makes him wonder. It also makes his heart hurt. 

So, when Jace starts throwing his tray down next to Simon and complaining that the cafeteria doesn’t sell enough protein-packed foods, Simon doesn’t protest. He strikes up a hesitant conversation and ignores the way Clary and Izzy stare at each other, smiling softly and making inaudible inside jokes. It helps, a little, something of a distraction. 

And then Jace is everywhere. He walks with Simon from classes, and he meets him during breaks and offers to share his little bag of fruit and carrot sticks, which Simon declines with an incredulous expression. Seriously, what kind of seventeen-year-old packs himself a lunch full of carrot sticks and grapes to take to school? Simon finds himself waiting at the edge of the football, doodling absently on his hands while he waits for Jace to finish running around like an idiot. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it, just that he finds himself drifting towards him more often than not.

They hang out, one day, after school, sitting in Simon’s room. Jace makes fun of his toys – figurines, Jace, they’re figurines – and looks a little intrigued by his comic book collection. They settle on a movie, eventually, and Simon’s mom pops in and out with popcorn and drinks, eyeing the space between them with a concerned eye. Simon mouths not like that, and she backs off a little. 

“So, how’s things with Clary?” Jace asks. 

Simon arches an eyebrow. “You’re really not that good at the whole small talk thing, are you buddy?”

Jace scowls, elbowing him in the ribs. “Look, I’m not good at this, but if you need someone to talk to about… feelings.” He pulls a face, looking briefly disturbed by the notion, and Simon has to bite back laughter. 

“You’re going to sprain something in a minute,” he says, and Jace sighs, shaking his head. 

“This is the thanks I get for trying to help a friend.”

Simon doesn’t bother biting back laughter this time. He also can’t help the warmth inside him at the word _friend_. 

*

“So, you don’t believe in love?” Simon asks. He knows he’s got a stupid look on his face, doesn’t quite know how to get rid of it. 

“Oh, I believe in it,” Jace says, rolling his eyes. “You can’t look at Alec and Magnus and not believe in love. I just don’t believe in this soul-mark bullshit. I don’t need a picture or a word on my skin to tell me who to love. The whole idea just rubs me the wrong way.”

“But some of them take time to appear,” Simon says, bewildered. He’s never heard of someone hating the soul-marks. “Some of them only appear when you really, truly love someone.” 

“And what about the other ones?” Jace argues. Not passionate, and not mild either, just matter-of-fact, like he really, truly knows this stuff, believes it deep down. “The ones that appear right away? Or what about the ones that appear before you even know you love someone, or before the other person knows you love them? Why would you want that to bring you together instead of something real, something tangible, a connection? It’s not right.”

“Does it matter?” Simon asks quietly. “As long as it brings you together. I mean, you don’t have to do what the soul-marks say. You don’t have to love that person, and you may not love them forever, or maybe you don’t pursue them at all, maybe you just acknowledge the possibility. But if it’s something true, something that’s taken a while, then why not go with it?”

Jace shrugs. “I don’t know. I just don’t like it. It’s a control thing, probably. Alec says I have issues with that, which is rich coming from him, I’ll tell you now. I just don’t want something I can’t see or understand controlling who I do or don’t love.”

Simon wants to argue, but he’s not fully sure he’s informed about this. He doesn’t know much about soul-marks, not really, not to the extent where he could build an argument and debate it properly. He just knows he believes in them, loves the idea of them. 

But Jace doesn’t. Jace seems to hate them, if the way he talks about them is any indication. He wonders if it’s from past experience, or if it’s because he doesn’t have any soul-marks, or maybe he has some that he doesn’t want. 

Whatever it is, Simon can’t make himself dig deeper, even though the curiosity is eating him up inside. 

*

“You’ve got sauce on your face,” Jace says. Simon swipes at his chin, to no avail, and Jace sighs and fetches a napkin from the little pile next to the condiments. He leans over the table and gently rubs at the sauce until it’s gone. Simon stays very still, aware that if he moves, he could very easily rip the delicacy of this moment in half. His heart is beating twice as fast at Jace’s proximity, and it occurs to him suddenly that Jace is very pretty. Handsome, sure, and hot, but he’s also pretty, and that takes Simon by surprise. 

“There.” Jace leans back with a satisfied nod, taking a bite out of his own burger and chewing neatly. His feet nudge Simon’s under the table, and Simon feels heat rise on his cheeks. Jace smiles at him, probably amused by his deer-in-the-headlights expression, and the sight is so blindingly pretty, Simon doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before. 

_Oh, shit_ , Simon thinks. 

*

Breaking in half isn’t quite the right phrase for it. Simon stares at the gold lettering inscribed in his skin. Jace. It says Jace, written there in plain ink, clear as day, sunk into his wrist for the rest of his life. He wonders if it would disappear if he lost his hand, or if it would just appear further down, maybe wrap itself around his ankle. 

He always thought it would be something subtler. A picture, perhaps, a drawing etched into his skin, a painting, something to resemble him and the person he loves. He didn’t think it would just be a name, but maybe that’s more intense, more personal. It’s a whole identity boiled down to one single word, and that means something, surely. Because Jace hides so much of himself while giving bits away, and the only thing that really tells the whole truth about him is his name. 

He bites his lip so hard that it bleeds, splitting the skin and sending the taste of copper rolling over his front teeth. He swallows hard and gets up, staggering across the landing to the bathroom, where he digs around in the cabinet until he finds the cheap green first aid kit. There’s a plastic-wrapped roll of bandages inside, hiding under the antiseptic wipes, and he rips it open and awkwardly rolls it around his wrist, up over his palm and around his thumb until it looks vaguely like a wrist support. 

It covers the name perfectly, and Simon feels like he can breathe again. There’s still a weight on his chest, and he feels – not empty, exactly, but hollowed out. Like there’s no chance, like the gold print is a curse in written form. He leaves the counter in a mess as he turns and stumbles back into his bedroom, collapsing face-first onto his bed and burying his face in his pillows, fists clenched in the sheets. 

Breaking in half isn’t quite the right phrase for it, but it’s close enough. 

*

He doesn’t do what all the fiction and TV shows in the world have taught him to do. He doesn’t stop seeing Jace, or try to avoid him. He doesn’t stop sitting at the bleachers while Jace is on the field, watching him throw a ball around, doesn’t stop meeting him there after school and during breaks to chat about random shit that fills his day. 

He doesn’t stop their study sessions, which start by chance, really, when Simon leans over and mutters a small correction in Jace’s math. Jace doesn’t need much tutoring – he excels at literacy, and his math is pretty good too – and Simon doesn’t either, but they help each other out. Jace explains the finer points of the novels they’re reading, jotting things down in the journal he keeps specifically for annotations.

“Such a nerd,” Simon says fondly, whenever Jace starts delving deeper into the connotations of specific Novel titles or gushing about the use of pathetic fallacy in a certain chapter. Jace always glowers at him from under his fringe, pokes him with a pen and grumbles about hypocrisy. 

He doesn’t stop their little excursions to the cinema – Simon hesitates to call them dates – even though it makes his heart jump in his chest when their fingers brush over the tub of buttery popcorn, and that, in turn, makes his stomach squirm with misery, because he’s never going to have more than this. 

*

Sunlight dampens the back of Simon’s neck, sticking his shirt to his skin and beating down on his face. The air is hot and sticky, devoid of a breeze, and the park is bustling with people, kids shrieking, parents hovering, teenagers skating past on wheelie shoes and boards and bikes. There’s an ice cream van parked nearby, and Simon wanders over while he waits for Jace, forks over a handful of coins in exchange for a vanilla cone. 

He shades his eyes with his hand and licks at the ice cream, the sweet, sticky taste coating his tongue, strolling slowly through the park. He comes to a stop near a raised patch of grass and sits. He’s going to get grass-stains on his new jeans, but the pockets are already fraying, so he doesn’t think his mom will mind too much. 

“You didn’t get me one?”

“You know where the van is,” Simon says, tipping his head back to stare at Jace, who strolls towards him casually, arms swinging loosely at his sides. He’s lost the leather jacket today, but Simon doesn’t mind. It shows off his arms, shows off his everything, and he finds himself looking a little longer than usual. 

“Vans like that give me the creeps,” Jace says, sitting down beside Simon and sprawling in the grass. “I always expect a clown to pop out of them, or some kind of child-eating monster to lure all the kids away with a pretty tune.” 

“You’re disturbed,” Simon says, licking around the top of his cone. He watches Jace kick off his shoes and wiggle his toes against the grass. He’s wearing odd socks, one black and one grey, like it faded in the wash, and for some reason it’s incredibly endearing. 

“You ditched your plaid,” Jace notices, and something warms in Simon. Something warms in him every time Jace notices something new or different about him, like the last time he got his hair cut and Jace tugged on a lock and smiled, that funny little half-smile he always does around Simon, like he doesn’t really want to laugh, but can’t help it because he’s fond. 

“It’s too hot for layers. Want some?”

He proffers the ice cream, and Jace shakes his head, watching in amusement as ice cream drips steadily down his wrist, landing on the bandage. Simon licks up most of it, wrinkling his nose at the taste of fabric on his tongue, the rough scratch of cotton. 

“That thing is disgusting,” Jace says. “You have to change bandages, you know, to stop infections. Here, give me your hand.” 

Simon twitches back. His hand feels heavier somehow, the cone dipping towards the ground. 

“Simon,” Jace says patiently. He reaches out again, and Simon doesn’t know why but he – he lets Jace take his arm. He lets Jace untwist the knot at the base of his thumb. He lets Jace unwind the bandage bit by bit, until he gets down to skin, and he lets Jace throw the bandage at their feet, a messy, unwashed ribbon. He lets Jace take his arm carefully and turn it over, so that his wrist is facing upward, and he lets him see the sunlight glinting off the letters on his skin. 

They’re still gold. Simon doesn’t know why he expected otherwise. 

Jace freezes, going perfectly still. His thumb twitches forward, touching the very edge of the e, and Simon feels a little faint, and a lot like he’s going to throw up. He feels splintered and sad and hopeful and angry with himself, for being hopeful, because there’s no way Jace is going to look up at him and smile, or kiss his wrist, or kiss his mouth, the way Simon has barely let himself think about, and only ever in the dark, when it’s quiet and no one else can catch the wistful look on his face. 

Jace lets go of his wrist, ever so carefully, and Simon turns it back over, hiding the name from view. His heart is pounding now, so loudly and so quickly that he can almost taste copper on his tongue, mingling with the leftover vanilla. His ice cream is almost completely melted now, a sticky mess on the grass, where Simon dropped it absentmindedly. 

“You didn’t tell me.” Jace’s eyes are serious, intense. 

Simon swallows thickly, clears his voice, but his voice still comes out quiet and hoarse. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

Jace grits his teeth and doesn’t reply. He jerks his head away to stare over the park, and then starts shoving his feet back into his shoes. Simon sits awkwardly beside him, silent. After a minute, Simon opens his mouth to speak, but Jace gets to his feet before he can say anything. 

“I have to go,” he grits out. Simon scrambles up to stand beside him and cautiously grips his elbow. Jace glances down, hesitates, and then shakes him off. 

“You should have told me,” he says, and then he’s stalking off. Simon watches him get smaller and smaller as he treads through the park, until he finally disappears around the corner, leaving Simon standing by himself, the remains of his ice cream squished beneath his shoes. 

*

He sits miserably at home, sad music playing in the background. He’s had the same song on repeat for the past half hour, and his mom must be getting tired of it, because soon there’s a knock on his door. 

“I’ll turn it off, mom.”

“Not your mom,” Izzy says, opening the door. “But I agree, you should definitely turn this off. What is this?”

Simon winces, reaching over to switch it off. “Kate Winslet.”

“I worry about you,” Izzy says, shaking her head. “And not just because you’ve ignored all our texts and locked yourself in the room for the past week.”

“Our?” Simon queries, puzzled, although in retrospect, he probably shouldn’t be. Clary falls through the door a moment later, hair all over the place and slightly out of breath, and Izzy laughs softly, watching her with affection. Simon still feels a weird ache when he catches them like that, but now it’s different. It’s a wistfulness, a longing to have what they have. 

“Your mom cornered me and demanded to know what I’d done to hurt her son,” Clary says, collapsing on the bed beside him. Simon bounces slightly on the mattress, and then leans back against the headboard, waiting for the inevitable interrogation. 

“If you don’t start talking, I’ll hurt you,” Izzy says quite calmly. “My girlfriend’s been threatened and I won’t stand for it.”

She’s joking, of course, but Simon apologises quietly anyway. “Mom’s just been worried.”

“So have we, Simon,” Clary says, laying a hand on Simon’s arm and staring at him with concern. She shares a glance with Izzy, who grimaces, and then turns back to Simon. There’s a seriousness to her expression that makes Simon sit up straighter, his own worries falling aside. 

“We owe you an apology,” Clary says solemnly. 

Simon jolts. “For what?”

Clary bites her lip. “For not being here. We’ve been so caught up in each other these past few months that we haven’t really bothered with you, and that’s not right. We just got a little carried away. It’s the gold love, though, it kind of sweeps you off your feet.”

Simon grimaces. “More like knocks you on your ass.”

Both of them freeze. Clary gapes at him, and Izzy leans forward, her sharp eyes fixed on his face. 

“You have a gold soul-mark?” Izzy asks. 

Simon shifts his sleeve out of the way and holds up his arm. Clary squints at the word until she can make out the letters, and then her eyes widen and she starts to splutter. Izzy doesn’t look quite as surprised, but there’s still shock there. 

“I’ve seen you two talking to each other, at lunch,” Izzy murmurs. “I never suspected…”

“That we love each other?” Simon scoffs. “Well, we don’t. It’s one-sided. Very one-sided.”

Now Izzy does look shocked. “But it’s gold love,” she says, reaching up to touch her own mark. “How can he argue with… Oh. It’s Jace.”

“Oh? What does oh mean?” Clary asks. 

“Jace hates soul-marks,” Simon explains miserably, picking a the skin around his thumb. 

“No,” Izzy says thoughtfully. “That’s not it. Before he came to us, he lived with his biological father. He wasn’t exactly a nice person.”

Simon snorts. “He was an asshole.”

Izzy startles slightly. “Jace talked about him?”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “We were watching Avengers, and we started talking about family, and I talked about my dad, and he started talking about his. Total asshole.”

Clary whips her head between Izzy’s stunned expression and Simon’s grim one. “Wait, so you guys actually do hang out, then? This wasn’t a sudden thing, like you and Izzy? You guys talk and you like each other and you genuinely get along?”

Simon shrugs. “Most of the time. I mean, he’s still a jerk, but I don’t hate him. Never hated him, really, even though he broke my glasses. I guess I… I guess I love him, even though I haven’t said it yet. Or thought about it, really. I’ve been trying pretty hard not think about it. And I didn’t think he hated me either, but now I’m not so sure.”

“He doesn’t hate you, and he doesn’t hate soul-marks,” Izzy protests. “He has a strange relationship with them. His father used to tell Jake that he’d never find the gold love, that anyone who claimed to have his mark would have to be lying. He drummed it into him, that he was unworthy of it, that he didn’t deserve it. So Jace thinks it’s all a trick, all a lie. He doesn’t hate them, he’s just lost all faith in them.”

That puts a new spin on it. He sinks back against the headboard and thinks carefully. 

“I take it he didn’t take the news well, and that’s why you’re up here listening to sad songs and pining desperately.” 

“Isabelle,” Clary says, rolling her eyes, and Izzy blows her a kiss, unapologetic. Clary turns back to Simon and says, softly, “You have his soul-mark, Simon. You can’t let that opportunity go.”

“I don’t think he has mine,” Simon murmurs. 

Izzy quirks an eyebrow. “You gonna let that stop you?”

*

Izzy lets him in through the front door of the Lightwood’s house, grinning widely and excitedly. 

“Hurry up,” she hisses. “I want to know how it goes.”

Simon readjusts the bouquet in his arms and heads up the stairs, flipping Izzy off when she wolf-whistles. He’s wearing the butter-soft jacket that he borrowed from Jace a few weeks ago, before everything went to shit. 

He knocks once on Jace’s door, and then pushes it open when he gets a soft grunt of acknowledgement. There’s something playing on the TV, and Jace is at the desk, frowning down at a book. He’s rubbing his wrist absent-mindedly, pen tucked behind his ear. 

He glances up as Simon enters and freezes. 

“Simon,” he breathes. 

“I came to tell you something,” Simon says. 

“Simon, wait…”

“No, _you_ wait.” Simon clears his throat. “I made you a mixtape, because that’s what you’re supposed to do to show someone you love them. I brought you flowers, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you ask someone to go out with you. And I bought you chocolates, because you’re never supposed to turn up empty-handed on a date.”

“Simon,” Jace says, pushing back from his desk, but Simon steamrolls over him. 

“No, shut up. This is all the stuff I would have done if I was asking some other guy or girl to a dance, or out on a date, or if I had a crush and I wanted to act on it. I would have done all of this, dealt with the inevitable rejection, and gone home to lick my wounds and eat a box of overpriced chocolate. Because that’s what you do when you like someone. But when you love someone?” Simon’s voice cracks embarrassingly, and he licks his dry lips, picks a point above Jace’s shoulder to focus on and carries on. “When you love someone, and you know there’s not a chance in hell of them loving you, when you know they hate everything gold and written on the skin, because they think it’s false, a lie, a way of tricking people into relationships? When you love someone, and that’s what they think, you don’t do any of this shit.”

He waves the flowers, puts the chocolates down on the nearest surface. The mix tape is burning a hole in his back pocket, but he doesn’t take it out. 

“You don’t do anything at all, because it’s only going to ruin what you already have. I knew you wouldn’t want me back, and I knew if you saw this, then you’d think that everything we did have was a lie, a way of me trying to get into your good books. And I’d rather watch you date other people, grow up and get married and live your life than not get to watch you do anything at all.”

“Stop,” Jace says harshly, getting up and surging forward until he’s standing inches away from Simon, who inhales sharply. “Stop talking like that, like you think I wouldn’t want you. Stop talking.”

Simon thinks he stops breathing. “What?”

Jace sighs deeply. He lifts his arm slowly, rolls down his sleeve, and Simon lifts shaking fingers to trace the lines of his own name, glinting gold on the underside of Jace’s wrist. 

“I don’t understand,” Simon murmurs. 

“It appeared a few days after I stormed off in the park,” Jace explains. He doesn’t stop Simon’s exploration, shivering under the feather-light touch. “I… I missed you, and I was thinking about you, and I felt it write itself there.”

“You missed me? But you were so mad.”

Jace sighs exasperatedly. “I was mad because you didn’t tell me. I was mad because you were just going to let me go on thinking everything was fine, let me go off and date other people when you had gold love all over your skin, my name on your skin.”

Simon can finally breathe. “I thought you hated the soul-marks.”

“They’ve grown on me,” Jace says drily. “You talk about them so much that I sort of started to see the appeal. You light up when you talk about them. I was going to come and find you, apologise. I just needed some space.”

“You haven’t actually apologised yet,” Simon points out, unable to keep his mouth shut, and Jace’s face almost cracks with the force of his grin. 

“Will this do?”

He leans forward and kisses Simon softly, reverently. Simon tries very hard not to faint out of sheer excitement as he kisses Jace back, dropping the flowers on the floor so he can wrap his arms around Jace’s neck. 

They part, breathless, after a few moments. 

“I think I might need a few more apologies before I’m fully satisfied.”

Jace smirks. 

*

They don’t say the words yet. They have each others’ names, the gold love shining through in every touch, every breath. They still have a whole world waiting for them, and there’s no telling what might happen, but Simon is pretty confident that they’ll get there. Gold love isn’t a thing to be thrown away easily. _Their_ love isn’t a thing to be thrown away easily. 

Yeah, Simon thinks, as Jace grips his wrist and tugs him over to their usual lunch-table, where Clary and Izzy are waiting with knowing grins. They’ll get there.

*

Alec’s mark is a pale, watercolour of a thing, and it doesn’t turn up for a few years. A simple blue handprint wrapped around Simon’s bony wrist, so pale that it’s almost invisible, on the opposite hand to Jace’s name. It’s almost like Alec doesn’t want to impose himself on Simon’s skin, and the matching handprint across his own wrist says the same thing. Simon knows that blue means trust, though, and he knows what Alec is saying with his body that he can’t say with his words; _I trust you with my family._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Really hope you liked it, please leave a comment/kudos and let me know what you thought, I'd love to hear from you. And come say hey @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr. Thank you!


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